


bloodied and bruised

by daveyjacobss



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, slightly nsfw but no details, sprace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daveyjacobss/pseuds/daveyjacobss
Summary: racetrack higgins is starting to realize just why he values his business relationship with brooklyn so much.





	bloodied and bruised

"i got midtown!"

race jumps at the chance to go tell anyone but brooklyn about the strike. anyone but spot conlon. jack catches his eye and nods like he understands. it passes fleetingly through race's mind that he doesn't. as much as jack might think he understands, he probably never will. he rids himself of the thought and pretends it had never even occurred to him.

what jack understood was that race didn't want to jeopardize his business relationship with brooklyn, and specifically with spot conlon, by waltzing in and asking for aid in their strike. jack understood that race didn't want to have to find a new selling spot after the strike was eventually, hopefully, settled.

what jack didn't understand, and what race barely understood himself, was that it was more than a business relationship race was afraid of jeopardizing. what jack didn't understand was that race didn't want to have to give up his daily chats with spot conlon when the king of brooklyn came to check up on him under the excuse of making sure manhattan wasn't screwing with brooklyn. what race didn't understand was why it mattered so much to him.

nonetheless, he brought the news to midtown and spent the whole day thinking about spot conlon somewhere across the brooklyn bridge.

__________

"you seen spot conlon, right?" his voice comes out desperate and he's sure everyone hears it. he hates that he sounds like that, but hopes it can be masked as desperation for support in the strike. not that he was entirely sure what the desperation was actually for in the first place. he always seemed to be desperate when it came to spot conlon.

everything sounds far away when jack explains that brooklyn isn't coming, not until they see proof of commitment, or some bullshit like that. brooklyn isn't coming. spot isn't coming.

race's head hurts and there's a burning sensation behind his eyes as if he's going to cry. he doesn't know why, doesn't think he has any reason to cry. but there's a memory echoing around in the back of his head, spot's voice blocking out the sounds of davey and jack trying to convince everyone not to give up.

he was chewing on his cigar, blowing out smoke as spot stood silently next to him, brooding as always. he had been telling spot about the two men who had looked at him funny, how he had been ready for a fight. spot didn't miss a beat in responding, explaining that anyone in brooklyn new better than to get in a fight with race. he was under spot conlon's protection.

he remembers the warm sort of feeling that had blossomed in his chest as he smiled cheekily over at spot, teasingly advising him to be careful before people started thinking he actually had a heart.

davey's hand on his shoulder brings him back. davey's eyes are desperate, the same way race is sure his own are. he knows they're desperate for different things. davey is desperate for support from the newsies, for success so that, when this is all over, he can make the money he needs to support his family. race isn't sure what he's desperate for.

but when he stands with the newsies, with his brothers, and jack is making his grand speech, he sees the way davey looks at jack. he thinks that maybe him and davey are desperate for a few of the same things, whatever they may be.

_________

the fighting breaks out like a fire catching in a wooden house. he's already taken a few hits when it occurs to him that, had brooklyn shown up, he might not be watching as his brothers fall bruised and bloodied to the ground. nonetheless, he keeps fighting. they all keep fighting. race sees albert on the ground and let's himself get distracted for a second too long. someone is on him, beating him to a bloody pulp. he's watching as his brothers fall like soldiers on the battlefield, too wounded to continue. he barely fights back, his limbs feel heavy and he thinks he might be fading in and out of consciousness. the person on top of him does not relent.

all race can think of, as he is being beaten to what is probably near death, is spot conlon over in brooklyn, probably enjoying his day. a surge of hatred flows through his veins.

had spot conlon decided to put aside his stupid king-above-all-who-doesn't-care-for-anyone facade for one _fucking_ day then maybe race wouldn't have to watch through swollen and bruised eyes as cruthie gets dragged away by snyder, screaming out frantically for jack. maybe he wouldn't be on the ground, listening to the way his breathing fades and feeling the way his chest aches.

someone pulls the man off of race and, in the split second between race looking up and finch and jojo throwing his attacker to the ground, he sees morris delancey looking down at him and panting. then it all fades to black.

__________

race had always been a clown of sorts, the one to cheer up his friends when they weren't feeling up to it. sometimes it had been hard, but never did it feel as difficult as it did after waking up in the lodging house, barely able to move. every part of his body aches, and breathing is now something he has to do manually. but there are plenty of other injured boys and race isn't the worst one off, so he grits his teeth and keeps the pain to himself, nodding in reassurance when specs looks at him with questioning eyes.

once everyone is as patched up as they can be they all head out to jacobi's. somehow, with jack missing in action and davey still somewhat unsure of himself, race ends up taking on the position of leader. he leads the pack on the trek to the restaurant, wishing they would all stop looking at him. it's harder to hide the way he winces every time he breathes or blinks when he has all of their eyes on him.

they spread out at jacobi's, populating every available table. jacobi himself doesn't say a word about it, doesn't even mention that they're preventing paying customers from coming in. he simply turns his sign around to say closed after they've all filed in and looks at him with pity in his eyes. race appreciates it, even nods at him to make sure he knows it, but he wishes he'd stop looking at them like that.

sure, they're a little roughed up and beaten down - but they are not to be pitied. the only pity they ever accepted was the kind that sold their papes.

they're drinking water in silence, save for the few groans of pain, when katherine walks in, bursting with excitement and entirely disregarding the closed sign. race takes a deep breath. he's the leader, at least for now, and he's got to find a way to cheer everyone up. he figures katherine has got some good news, something that race can blow out of proportion and use to boost their morale.

when she holds out the paper with all of their smiling faces on it he mentally sends his thanks to god, who he doesn't even believe in, for sending them an angel in the form of katherine plumber. the boys perk up immediately, all crowding around the paper.

race makes a joke, something about drinking in the moment. he barely knows what's coming out of his mouth. his mind is drifting, going where it always seems to.

the boys are getting excited and laughing at or with race, he isn't sure which, and they're praising katherine and they're smiling and having fun. their morale is definitely boosted.

but, even as he spouts his jokes and smiles at his friends, race is thinking about spot conlon. about how the next time he sees spot he's going to punch him the face, and after that, if he isn't killed on the spot, he's going to throw a few more punches. and he's going to scream at spot and he's probably going to cry and he might pass out since his lungs aren't working all that well, but he figures spot won't care either way. because he doesn't care, obviously. spot never fucking cares. not about anyone outside of brooklyn, not about the strike, not about race. _especially_ not about race.

it occurs to race, as everyone is leaving jacobi's and spreading out, that maybe race only ever convinced himself spot cared about him because he cares for spot. a lot. too much. and maybe he's mad because he doesn't want to believe that spot would ever allow race to be put in a position of danger. and maybe, before all the striking business had started, race had been planning to do something else the next time he saw spot. maybe that's why it hurt so much.

he's at the brooklyn bridge before he knows it. he hasn't even been paying attention to where he was walking, but he supposes it made sense. he had been thinking about spot and so he had ended up in brooklyn, as always.

the minute he's over the bridge a brooklyn newsie named stumbles is next to him, matching his pace.

"jesus race, what happened to you?" he asks, fixing his hat on his head. race looks straight ahead, not sparing him a glance.

"spot in the lodge?" his voice is hoarse, but there's an edge to it that race himself didn't quite expect. stumbles seems to pick up on it, eyes widening in surprise - and maybe a little bit of fear.

"yeah, he is. he got somethin' to do with those bruises o' yours?" race stops walking, turning so that his facing stumbles with his entire body.

"he's got everything to do with them." stumbles takes a step backward, looking at race like he is something entirely foreign. but he doesn't try to stop him, doesn't try to keep him from getting to spot. he just nods and then walks away, only looking back once, worry painted all over his face.

race keeps walking, ignoring the way his chest feels hollow save for the pain, trying not to pay attention to the way his knees wobble like they're going to give out on him. he makes it to the lodge in more time than usual, but he makes it there nonetheless. he opens the door without knocking.

there's only a few newsies actually in the building, a couple scattered around the beds and two of them playing cards. aces, one of the boys playing cards (unbeaten in poker except when race plays), looks up when the door swings open. his playing partner, patches, steals a glance at his cards when he does.

"hey, race!" he smiles, waving. "you want us to deal you in?" race shakes his head, walking past all of them.

"damn race, who soaked you that bad?" bee asks, sitting up from where he had been lying shirtless on his bed, whistling softly. race doesn't answer, just keeps walking until he reaches the door to spot's room, the only private place in the whole lodge. he can feel the boys looking at him, can hear as someone whispers something unintelligible. he keeps walking.

he doesn't knock on spot's door, either. he opens it, walks in, and closes it behind him. spot, standing at the window, turns with a shocked and slightly angry expression on his face. he hesitates when he sees race, as if he was simultaneously expecting him and surprised to see him. it's the apology in his eyes that lets race know that he's heard, at least somewhat, about what happened. race glares at him with all the anger he's been storing away.

"proof of commitment?" his voice is sharp and loud, and he thinks spot might wince just a little at the sound of it.

"race," he starts. race doesn't let him finish.

"you wanted fucking _proof_ of commitment? crutchie is in the fucking _refuge_ , you asshole! jack is gone! there isn't a single manhattan newsie that isn't bloodied and bruised beyond repair! i can barely fucking _breathe_ , spot!" he's panting and his chest hurts. spot takes a few quick steps toward him before thinking better of it and pausing mid-step. he looks at race with concern.

race closes the distance between them and punches him right in the jaw.

spot stumbles backward, hand flying up to where race hit him. but he doesn't fight back, and he doesn't call for his boys in the other room. so race throws another punch. and another. and then he's just weakly pounding his fists against spot's chest as the other boy reaches up and gently grabs his wrists, halting his movements. it's only then that he realizes he's crying, and his sob breaks the silence of the room.

spot wraps his arms around race, and race lets him. he's too weak and tired to stop him, to keep fighting. it occurs to him that he's been fighting his whole life. it was probably about time he got a beating too harsh to handle. but spot's touch is gentle, and race can't remember a time he had ever been touched gently, so he leans into the embrace.

"i'm so sorry, racer." he can't see spot's face, but it sounds like he's crying, too. "i'm so sorry. i should have been there." his hand threads through race's hair and race burrows his head into spot's shoulder. "i should have been there." it comes out as a whisper the second time, and then spot is pulling away.

race looks at him, taking in his red eyes and tear stained cheeks. he looks beautiful. race tries not to think about it, not while they're so close that with every inhale his senses are overwhelmed with the scent of spot. he watched as spot's jaw clenches and his features tighten. he looks angry again.

"who did this to you?" his voice is demanding, and race knows immediately that he won't get away without answering.

"morris delancey."

"i'll soak 'im." spot removes his hands from race's shoulders, blowing out a puff of breathe as his anger visibly grows. "fuck that, i'll kill 'im." race doesn't want any murders committed on his behalf. he changes the topic so his mind doesn't dwell on it, knowing that nothing he could say would stop spot from doing whatever he's decided on.

"you'll be there, won't you?" spot's eyebrows furrow and he tilts his head in confusion. "next time," race clarifies. "davey wants to hold a rally for all the newsies, give everyone a chance to talk 'bout the strike. you'll come, right? you and your boys?" he knows he sounds desperate and pathetic again. he doesn't care this time. he _needs_ spot to be there.

"yeah racer, i'll be there. we'll all be there."

__________

race doesn't get back to manhattan until the next morning. spot had insisted that he spend the night in brooklyn and let them fix him up a little more. patches had bandaged all of the wounds that he could, but the pain was still there. he had slept in spot conlon's bed with spot right next to him. he'd barely slept, though - too aware of spot's presence, trying to avoid any points of contact.

as soon as he gets back he finds davey and specs and fills them in, telling them that brooklyn has promised their support. davey smiles widely at the news and they send boys out to each turf to spread the word as davey goes with les and katherine to find jack.

finch gives him a look as he collapses into his bunk, like he's got an idea of what race was doing in brooklyn all night. race ignores him, closing his eyes and getting some much needed sleep.

____________

the rally is chaos in its purest form. every single new york newsie is packed into medda's theatre, shouting and making more noise than race has ever heard. spot stands on the stage, an angelic glow cast upon him from the stage lights. he's looking around the crowd, like he's searching for something.

his eyes stop when they find race, and race's breath catches in his throat as one side of spot's mouth quirks upward into a kind half-smile. they only break eye contact when davey steps up onto the stage, addressing the crowd.

when jack shows up, the crowd cheers. and then he starts speaking and everything falls apart. race watches as spot tries to get to him, presumably so he can throw a punch, but aces holds him back. davey looks broken, frozen in place as he stares at jack. race looks at jack, too. he thinks of the jack kelly who he grew up with, and he doesn't believe for one second that jack would turn on all of them like this. but then there's a wad of cash in jack's hands, and he's calling out to davey with a guilty look on his face. race feels his heart slowly shatter in his chest. once upon a time, jack had been all that race had. he can't lose him now, not to a wad of cash, not to joseph fucking pulitzer, and not to some desert out west.

race catches spot's eye again and he watches as spot softens. maybe he can tell how absolutely crushed race feels, but when race makes it outside into the hot and still summer air, spot is waiting.

he throws his arm over race, and they walk to brooklyn together. race doesn't bother protesting. he's so sick of fighting. later in the night they receive word of jack rejoining the strike, of the newsies banner being printed.

"wonder what brought the bastard to his senses," spot grumbles. race thinks of jack calling out davey's name and davey's name only and thinks he might just have an idea, but he doesn't say a word. he and spot split up somewhere and he runs all the way back to manhattan. his chest and legs hurt, but the look on jack's face when he gets there, filled with relief and joy and apologies, is worth it. race smiles at him, lets him know that it's okay.

when they're stacking papers, prepping them for distribution, jack glances at him like he has something to say.

"spot conlon, huh?" a faint blush reaches race's cheeks and jack smirks.

"shuddup," he mutters. "not like you're any better."

"what's that supposed to mean?" jack asks.

"davey jacobs, huh?" race mocks. jack gets this dopey, love struck grin on his face and race rolls his eyes. "you're worse than me."

they end the conversation there.

__________

race is still riding the high of winning the strike when someone pulls him into an alleyway. he prepares to run or fight, clenching his teeth and closing his fists. but, when he looks to see who it is, spot conlon is grinning at him.

"well, you won," he says. "how's it feel?" he leans nonchalantly against the wall and race despises how good it makes him look.

"we won," he corrects. "it was a joint effort." spot chuckles. "and it feels pretty damn good," race grins. spot is looking at his smile, at his lips. and he's moving closer.

"tell me i ain't readin' this wrong, racer," he whispers. his voice is hoarse and maybe just a little bit desperate. he's moved them so that he has race trapped against the wall, and he's leaning in with his eyes half closed.

still, it takes race a second to realize what he means. but he thinks about the passing thoughts he always seems to have about how beautiful spot is, how angry he was when spot didn't show up, and the way spot had held him in his arms and touched him gently.

he closes the gap between them before spot gets the chance, crashing their lips together. spot kisses back fiercely and both their hands are roaming every available piece of skin that they can find, spot's shirt riding up as race brushes his fingers over his abdomen. spot's hands are tugging at the waistline of race's pants when he pulls away to breathe.

" _not here_ ," he tries to say, but his voice comes out breathy and he sounds completely wrecked. he basks in the way spot shudders slightly at the sound.

they make it back to the brooklyn lodging house in record time and spot has race pushed up against the bedroom door as soon as its closed behind them. race places kisses on his jaw, soft and slow, tracing the places his fist had been just days before. spot returns the favor, kissing over race's cuts and bruises, leaving a few extra purple marks on his neck.

race moans when spot's hand slips inside his pants, wondering how the hell it took him so long to figure out that this was what he had always been desperate for when it came to spot conlon - for the kissing and the sex and the way spot had been smiling at him and the way spot's eyes always found him in the crowd and the way spot had held him and _definitely_ the way that spot is touching him: like there's no tomorrow and they've only got one day left to do everything they've been so desperate for. because race is realizing that he makes spot conlon desperate, too. that much is evident by the whine that escapes spot's throat when race offers to return the favor.

it occurs to him he might be in love with spot. he tells him so afterwards, when they're lying in bed with their limbs entangled and spot's hands stroking race's hair. spot laughs kindly in response, kissing him gently.

"me too, racer," he whispers. "me too."

__________

after everything, the first time race sees morris delancey again is about a week later. his left eye is busted up, his nose looks to be broken, his arm is in a sling, and he's limping a bit.

race smiles and waves cheekily. morris just glares, looking as bloodied and bruised as ever.

spot always did throw a better punch with his left hand.


End file.
